


The Telling

by katiemariie



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alien Culture, Alien Mythology/Religion, F/F, Interspecies Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-23
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-09-01 15:14:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8629138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiemariie/pseuds/katiemariie
Summary: "When it comes to talking about herself to shorter-lived beings, the problem isn’t a matter of willingness, but of skill—a distinction that comes to a head over a rather nice caprese salad."





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brinnanza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/gifts).



Guinan has never met someone quite like Ro Laren. That’s not entirely true. Guinan has met countless people during her time in this universe; there’s bound to be some overlap even amongst the most idiosyncratic individuals.

Infinite diversity in infinite combinations sounds nice, even admirable from a certain point of view. Vulcans, being rather short-lived, of course would believe that there is such a thing as infinity. But when you live as long as Guinan’s people do—and in their restless, ever reinventing manner—you find yourself running into the limits of diversity eventually. You learn that there is no such thing as infinity—at least when it comes to people.

That’s all to say that Guinan has met more than a few someones like Ro Laren before. It’s a type easy to recognize: hardened by life and loneliness, but still all knees and elbows when it comes to figuring out where they belong. So uncertain of their own judgment that they’ll deny their own desires, picking a fight with those people encouraging their pursuit, all just to know without a doubt that’s what they want. (Makes ordering dessert hell.) All austerity and defensiveness mixed with strength and faith.

These kinds of people you can find anywhere.

But what’s unique about Laren is that all this awkwardness and longing and genuine confusion about existing as an individual (the same one all day long for her entire life) coming together spurs her to ask questions.

And not the usual questions people ask which are typically all about themselves. That’s understandable given how short-lived most sapient species are. They only get to be one person and not for very long. It’s natural they’d be curious about who that person is.

No, Ro asks questions about Guinan.

Let’s be clear: she isn’t asking the kind of questions that technically are about Guinan, but are really about herself. “Guinan, what would you do if…” “Guinan, have you ever been in a situation where…” “Guinan, would you say I’m…”

Guinan gets plenty of questions like that.

The questions Ro asks are about Guinan as a person, indicating a sincere curiosity (or, if we’re being honest, exasperation) regarding Guinan’s life, how she moves through the world, what motivates her, why she lives the way she does.

Technically, this shouldn’t be possible. Guinan goes to great pains to make sure that people talk to her about themselves and never ask her any probing questions about her own existence. She projects a certain vibe. Some might call her efforts “ambient telepathic manipulation” (and, indeed some similarly long-lived beings have accused her species of just that). Guinan finds that phrasing offensive. Not because she has anything against beings who rely a bit more heavily than she does on telepathy. It offends her because chalking up her ability to get people to talk about themselves to mere psionic manipulation erases all the work she does in the corporeal realm to nudge people along.

Did you really think she became a bartender for the retirement package?

No, Guinan creates an environment (including a role for herself) that encourages people to talk about themselves. (For example, over the centuries, she’s learned that most species are not inclined to ask probing personal questions of a person wearing a large hat. Fortunately, Guinan happens to look great in hats.) Combine that with the low-level telepathic signal all El-Aurians transmit (“please tell me everything and ask nothing in return”) and you get an entire ship’s worth of people all clamoring to tell Guinan their life stories without sparing a thought for her own.

Except for Ro Laren, who provides Guinan with just as many questions as answers.

As far as Guinan can tell (again, she has limited telepathic ability), there’s nothing particularly special about Ro. She doesn’t have any abilities or extra parts not found in the typical Bajoran. Ro, it would seem, is so preternaturally defensive that she can override an El-Aurian’s vibe just to avoid talking about herself.

A few centuries ago, Guinan would have found Ro’s odd talent an annoying violation of the natural order. _She was a Listener. Who did Ro think she was asking her to speak? What a waste of time. What could either of them possibly get out of Guinan sharing herself with Ro?_

But that was before the Borg. Before the Scattering. Before Guinan’s people learned the true meaning of the word “diaspora” (there’s only so much stories can teach you, even an El-Aurian will admit that). 

Back when Guinan could just go home if she ever wanted to talk—really talk—instead of listen. Back when—and it’s hard to imagine now—she would occasionally bump into a fellow Listener during her travels and sit down for a chat. There used to be that many of them.

But now she’s older (if not wiser), and the years have taught her that other species have more to offer than the stories they tell. Given how precariously her own species totters on the edges other civilizations, it no longer seems impractical to put her faith in beings lucky to see a third century. 

When it comes to talking about herself to shorter-lived beings, the problem isn’t a matter of willingness, but of skill—a distinction that comes to a head over a rather nice caprese salad.

“Let’s just say my mother has always been long-winded for a Listener.” Guinan gives one of those coy but all-knowing smiles that intrigue and distract shorter-lived beings in equal measure.

But not Ro. At least not tonight.

Around a bite of tomato, Ro asks, “Are you this evasive with Captain Picard?”

“Excuse me?” Guinan asks, although she knows where this is going. She’s seen this story play out before: shorter-lived species tending towards monogamy have a strange penchant for jealousy. Despite their more intensely linear experience of time (one must keep a closer eye on the sand when the hourglass is smaller), members of these species often act as if a lover Guinan had years ago was cuckolding them in the present.

“You never give me a straight answer about anything. I can’t imagine Captain Picard would tolerate that too well,” Ro explains.

“No, I don’t think he would.” Guinan sets down her fork to fold her hands on the table. “Fortunately, Captain Picard doesn’t ask me as many questions.”

In fact, since she’s taken on the new, working-class trappings of a bartender, Picard has stopped asking her personal questions almost entirely. It’s better this way. She loves the man dearly, and knows he reciprocates, but being on the receiving end of his Starfleet “there’s so much we can learn from your species” enthusiasm doesn’t exactly do wonders for their relationship. And, yes, she realizes the hypocrisy of a Listener being annoyed by human curiosity.

“Fortunately?” Ro repeats, letting her fork droop onto her plate. “Do personal questions annoy you or something?” There’s a tone of ‘because if they do, now you know how the rest of us feel.’

“No.” Guinan reaches across the table to touch Ro’s hand, but it’s gone back to piling her fork with food, shoveling it into her mouth. Romantic dinners with former refugees provide scant opportunities for hand-holding, so Guinan once again folds her hands on the table. “I don’t find them annoying. Just unfamiliar.”

“You…” Ro pauses to wash down a large forkful. “...ask people personal questions all day. How can they be unfamiliar?”

“Well, that’s the thing. I’m used to asking personal questions, not receiving them.”

“So, what? You’re just naturally skilled at evading them?”

“Of course. I’m a Listener.”

“But what does that even mean?” Ro asks, gesturing with her fork.

“It means I listen.”

If her fork wasn’t loaded with cheese and basil, Guinan is sure Ro would have jabbed her with it. “So you’ve told me.”

“Then what else is there to know?”

“Everything,” Ro gasps. “I’ve been to bed with you, but I know almost nothing about you or your people.”

“You know enough to be good at the going to bed part.”

“That’s biology. But what about culture? Religion? Your people must have a belief system of some kind.”

“We believe in what we hear.”

“From who?”

Guinan shrugs. “Everyone.”

“But how is that even…” Ro inhales deeply. “I’m trying to be open-minded, but I don’t understand how that could work. People say remarkably different things all the time. Even on this ship, there are thousands, if not millions, of conflicting opinions. That’s hardly the basis of a coherent belief system.”

“It’s not.” Guinan leans in conspiratorially. “Between you and me, my people aren’t huge fans of coherency.”

“I never would have guessed,” Ro deadpans.

“When you live as long as my people do—”

“You still haven’t told me how long that is exactly,” Ro cuts in.

Guinan continues, “Keeping your story straight just isn’t that important. Coherency, consistency, a static, singular belief system. All that stops being practical around your two hundredth birthday.”

“So, instead, you just believe what anyone tells you?”

Guinan nods. “Essentially.”

“Even the lies?” Ro asks.

“Especially the lies.” That’s where people hide the truth.

“I don’t know if this is because I’m a Starfleet officer or a Bajoran, but I just don’t grasp how that could be at all useful. For Bajorans, faith is a source of comfort, of certainty that however badly you’ve been screwed over on this plane of existence, there is someone looking out for you, waiting for you in the Celestial Temple. That faith has gotten my people, including even me occasionally, through some very bad times. Perhaps faith serves another purpose for your people, but I don’t see how you can have faith at all—much less a comforting faith—in a giant ball of contradictions.”

“Hold on. I didn’t say anything about faith. I was talking about belief.”

“Is there really that much of a difference?”

“From where I’m sitting, yes. Belief is an opinion based on observation, while faith is… Faith is about feelings. I realize not every species makes a strong distinction between the two, but for Listeners.... It’s like this. Based on what my taste buds tell me, I believe this caprese salad is delicious. But based on feelings of loyalty and fondness, I have faith in Captain Picard’s leadership.”

“But those are both subjective assessments,” Ro leans in, a spark coming to life in her eyes. You can take the girl out of the Bajoran refugee camp, but you can’t take the Bajoran predilection for theological discourse out of the girl. “To someone with different taste buds, this salad may seem inedible. It’s just your feelings that make it seem delicious. And, as far as Captain Picard goes, you have to admit that your belief in his leadership abilities are at least somewhat related to your observations of his performance. Belief is faith. Faith is belief.”

“What I find delicious may be subjective, but you’re forgetting what I said about belief,” Guinan counters. “I believe everything that I hear. So, if I like this salad, and Mr. Worf tells me it’s awful, that doesn’t mean I’m going to believe him or myself any less. When it comes to belief, Worf’s testimony is just as valid an observation as eating the salad myself.”

“And faith?” Ro asks, ever the Bajoran.

“Faith isn’t about direct observation. At its core, faith is our feelings about the future, while belief is about the past and the present. In a race of storytellers, faith, thinking about the future doesn’t have much appeal. I mean, you can’t tell a story about things that haven’t happened yet.”

Ro furrows her already wrinkled brow. “There’s an entire genre of literature that does that.”

Guinan dismisses the notion with a wave of her hand. “Those stories, no matter how much they profess to being about the future, are really about the author’s past and present.”

Ro takes a sip of wine. “Did Mark Twain teach you that?”

“Samuel? No, I taught him.”

“Of course you did,” Ro says into her glass.

“For your people, faith is what ties you to the future, the hereafter, the great beyond. But for my people, it’s belief that gets us to the afterlife. Story-by-story, we pave our way to the world beyond death, using every moment of the past and present to get us there.”

“‘The world beyond death?’” A triumphant smirk. “That sounds a lot like faith to me.”

There’s something in that infuriating, tantalizing smirk that makes Guinan want to throw aside centuries of secrecy and contrived mystery. The quirk of Ro’s lips is like a challenge calling for Guinan to prove herself right. Against all precautions.

The novel sensation sends shivers down her spine and fire to her belly.

“To a Bajoran, yes,” Guinan responds. “But then again you don’t know what happens when you die. We do.”

“I see how it is.” Ro nods slowly, lowering her glass. “You may act all wise and mysterious, but at the end of the day you’re just like the rest of us, certain that your belief system has all the right answers and everyone else is just kidding themselves.”

Guinan drops her chin, gazing up at Laren from under the brim of her hat. “Wanna bet?”

“Is that a threat, bartender?” Laren’s eyes twinkle. “Are you going to send me to the afterlife?” Laren raises her hands, curling the fingers into cat-like claws, imitating a gesture she has no idea is so appropriate.

“Not threatening, inviting. And only for a visit.”

“I wouldn’t want to overstay my welcome in Listener heaven.” 

Ro is still joking, but she’s right. There’s only so long a mortal—even an El-Aurian—can spend there before the information overload melts their brain. That’s why it’s there in the first place, and why, despite the temptation, no El-Aurian checks out of reality entirely.

“I’m serious,” Guinan says,

“You’re never serious.”

“Then you know this must be a special occasion.”

Ro’s eyes narrow. “You’re really serious. You want to show me your people’s afterlife? You can do that?”

“I haven’t tried this with a Bajoran before, but I don’t think that will be a problem.”

“But you have done this before? With someone outside your species? And they came back?”

Guinan nods. “On a few occasions.”

Ro’s shoulders slump in a relieved exhale, then after a beat, roll forward again in agitation. “Was it Captain Picard?” The jealous mayfly rears it’s ugly head once more.

“I don’t see why that should matter to you,” Guinan says coyly.

“I’m a petty, arrogant boor. Of course, it matters to me.”

Guinan has to give her points for admitting it. “I took Picard there once.” 

Picard, to his credit, was incredibly open to the experience, setting aside his human skepticism in favor of Federation diplomacy, making First Contact and what-not. It was probably the most outgoing thing he’d ever done. Guinan appreciated the risk he took by coming with her, and enjoyed their brief time there together, but… People who are wonderful for each other on one plane of existence don’t always do so great together on another. They still fit hand-in-glove there, but instead of bringing out the best in one another as they do in the present, sharing their time there seemed only to encourage their most destructive impulses. They didn’t fight, but they did far worse. They made each other want to stay—Picard as explorer and Guinan as guide. Their shared willingness to remain in this shadow realm despite the danger reminded Guinan far too much of her time in a place not of stories, but of dreams. The Nexis. 

So, Guinan guided Picard out and they never returned.

“That’s all I’ll say,” Guinan adds.

“I think that's as much as I want to know,” Ro replies.

There is some limit to the mayfly’s jealous streak. 

Guinan smiles. “You interested? Even though I’ve been around the block a few times?”

“I don’t know what ‘the block’ is, but I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

“So you do know some human idioms.”

“I picked up a few things at the Academy.”

“Really?” Guinan leers. “You’ll have to tell me about that when we get back.”

Ro shakes her head. “You and your stories.”

They share a smile over their now empty plates until Ro ducks her head, earring jangling against her cheek. She looks up through her lashes with a shy grin. “So, how do we…”

It hits Guinan then as it does every time she is about to journey with someone this short-lived: Ro is so young and what’s more she'll never get old. At least not by Guinan’s standards. There’s something beautiful about that, how Ro and nearly everyone else on this ship will die young after living a full life. The presence of all this youth makes Guinan feel positively ancient by comparison even though by El-Aurian terms she still has parsecs to go before hitting middle age.

A protective urge curls its way around Guinan’s relationship with Ro. It’s not the same protectiveness Ro feels towards her: the arm draped over Guinan as they sleep, the check-in over comms once whatever crisis the Enterprise finds has passed, the faux-casual questions about an El-Aurian’s lifespan. While Guinan certainly doesn’t want any harm to come to Ro, the protectiveness she feels is not for Ro as an individual, but rather who they are when together. Ro with her eternal youth and already declining body. Guinan with her fleeting youth and dependable body.

Who they are together in this moment will end. And soon.

This knowledge spurs Guinan to protect and cherish what little time they have.

“Well,” Guinan starts, “since you’re a corporeal being, this—” Guinan throws up her hands in the cat-like claws Ro imitated earlier. “—won’t work. I’ll need to make physical contact with a psionic pressure point.” Guinan cocks her head to the side, eyes squinted. “Which on you, if I’m not mistaken, is right about here.” Guinan reaches across the table to tap Ro’s earring.

“Of course.” Ro rolls her eyes even as she unfastens her earring. “I join Starfleet, travel lightyears from Bajor, and still someone in a hat wants to pinch my pagh.”

“We don’t have to, if you don’t want—”

“No, it’s fine. Just don’t sneak up on me and grab my ear. I hate that.”

“I could tell,” Guinan says. “You’re the only Bajoran I know who wears the earring on that side.”

Ro shrugs. “I had to do something to discourage the vedeks. And biting only seemed to make them more determined.”

Guinan extends her hand toward Ro’s now-naked earlobe. “No biting,” she warns.

Ro smirks. “I’ll do my best.”

As her thumb and forefinger press against Ro’s earlobe, Guinan’s eyes slide shut, shutting out this realm in favor of the next. Once she latches onto Ro’s pagh (which is alarmingly easy), Guinan turns her attention toward their destination. Flipping through her people’s vast compendium of stories, Guinan settles on one scene from one story that she feels reasonable certain won’t cause catastrophic damage to Ro’s psyche.

It might even be fun. And who knows? They might run into someone interesting.

They surface in a park, one near some distant relative’s house. A special occasion place—not for any of the park’s geographical features, but owing to the rarity of their visits. Guinan can remember her disappointment on this day, traveling all the way here, meeting with cousins so infrequently seen, only for a downpour to destroy their plans. Of course, Guinan’s mother was never one to let weather stop her...

Guinan opens her eyes, expecting to see one of the few stock reactions non-Listeners have to the Telling: shock, awe, disbelief, a hint of fear. All understandable when being taken one place to another without any perceivable mode of transit. Most people need a moment to take things in, process this new situation.

Not Ro. Almost as soon as they touch down, Ro takes off running, pulling Guinan along by the arm. After a quick sprint, they stop under a pavilion.

Over the din of raindrops falling on the tin roof, Ro yells, “Does it always rain in Listener heaven?”

“No,” Guinan shouts back. “Do you always act this nonchalant when visiting other realms?”

“I’m Bajoran. I’ve gotten used to it.” Ro removes her jacket, shaking off the rain. “Where are we?”

“A park.”

Ro gestures to the benches and firepits crowded into the pavilion. “I got that. Where are we really?”

Guinan tips her head to the side, allowing the accumulated rainwater to slosh out of her hat. “We call it the Telling.”

“Of course, because why allow death to stop you from being cryptic.”

“The Telling isn't just for the dead. The living have just as much a claim to it.”

“So, what, is this like your home realm or something?” Ro asks.

“Oh, no. We are very much of the corporeal realm. This is more like offsite storage. It’s a place we use to store memories, stories, things we hear.”

“This is a memory?”

Guinan nods. “One of mine in fact.”

“And you put it here for safekeeping?”

“Not quite. It is safe here, but more importantly I’m safe from it.”

“You’re being cryptic again.” Ro crosses her arms over her chest, affecting annoyance. “I don’t think you ever stopped.”

Guinan sidles up behind Ro, wrapping her arms somewhat awkwardly around her waist. Guinan isn’t used to being—what did Picard call it?— _la grande cuillère_ , and Ro has a few inches on her. “Think of it this way: brains are like computers. They store data, they execute programs, albeit on a much grander scale than even the most advanced computers, but still they’re like computers. And like all computers, brains are limited. They can only store so much information or do so many things at once. And since, as someone recently told me, I spend all day asking people personal questions, my brain acquires a lot of data. So I hit my brain’s storage limits—as epic as they may be—rather quickly. If I want to function, run all the processes I need to survive, I can either delete this data or upload it to an external server.”

Ro leans into Guinan’s embrace, allowing Guinan to rest her chin on her shoulder. “So, you archive memories here and access them remotely?”

“Mm hmm.” Gunian nods, her chin bobbing up and down on Ro’s shoulder.

“You use this entire realm,” Ro asks slowly, “as a personal storage device?”

“Not personal,” Guinan corrects. “All Listeners use the Telling to share and store their own stories and the stories of others.”

Ro twists in Guinan’s arms to look her in the eye. “So we could visit someone else’s memories? Mark Twain’s? Captain Picard’s?”

“We could. But I’ve never felt quite right sharing another person’s memory with a non-Listener.”

“But it’s fine sharing everything you hear with your entire species?”

“Yes. That’s how we operate. People tell me things because I’m a Listener. To share their stories with a non-Listener would be a massive breach of trust. And besides if I spend all day listening to people, helping them with their problems, don’t I deserve something in return?”

Ro pulls away. “And what would that be? Gossip?”

“This!” Guinan gestures not so much to the park around them, but to the entire realm. “The Telling. My people’s collective memory. Our afterlife.”

Ro’s brow furrows in thought. “You weren’t being mysterious earlier. You really meant it. You’re building your afterlife with every story you hear. Everything you listen to, you put here, and when you die… That’s why you do it. That’s why you ask so many damned questions.” Ro chuckles. “You cultivate this wise, mysterious persona—” Ro takes a break to laugh. “—when really, you’re just a—” This is the first time Guinan has heard Ro giggle. “—little gortaya preparing for winter.”

Guinan can't help but laugh along. “What’s a gortaya?”

Ro scrubs a hand over her face, trying to regain composure. “It’s a little tree rodent that gathers seeds and hides them for the winter.”

Guinan claps Ro on the shoulder. “You know, I think I like that better than my computer analogy.”

Ro snakes an arm around Guinan’s waist, leaning in close to kiss her forehead. “You are one strange woman.”

Guinan dips her left hand in Ro’s back pocket. “The feeling’s mutual.”

They stare off into the pouring rain, companionably silent until Ro asks, “Why’d you bring me here? Why choose this memory? Did something happen here?”

“Not so much something as someone.” Before Ro has a chance to start, Guinan adds, “Cryptic, I know. I’m sorry. I told you that my people know for certain where we go after death. By coming here, I wanted to show you how I know.” Guinan scans the park and sure enough… “Look over there.”

Ro follows Guinan’s gaze. “Is that a person?”

“An El-Aurian. Or, rather, a former El-Aurian.”

“They’re dead? How do you know?”

“Living El-Aurians can’t interact or even see one another in the Telling.”

“And they’re not a memory?”

“No,” Guinan answers. “We can’t be stored here. One of the drawbacks of being a storyteller is that you can’t be in the story.”

Ro squeezes her side. “Again, there’s an entire genre of literature where that happens.”

Guinan squeezes her back and says through her teeth. “Those stories are based on breaking the rules of storytelling. If a Listener breaks those rules, people die.”

Ro peers out at the figure spinning in circles amidst the shower. “Are they always here? Can they leave? Go to other memories?”

“Of course. She comes and goes, but most of the time I find her here.”

“You know her?” Ro asks.

“She’s my mother.”

“Your mother? I didn’t realize… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. She was one of the lucky ones. She died fighting the Borg, took a phaser blast to the chest before they could assimilate her. If they had, she wouldn’t be here. And you wouldn’t be able to meet her.”

“You want me to meet your mother?” Ro’s voice rises an octave.

“Don’t be scared.” Guinan rubs Ro’s hip. “She’s not going to haunt you.”

“I’m not scared of spirits.”

“Then you just decided to become a soprano all of a sudden.”

Ro sighs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve never… I’ve never met someone’s mother before. At least, not someone I was with.”

“Really?

“I’m not exactly the kind of girl people take home.”

“If you don’t want to, I can bring us back to the Enter-”

“No.” Ro takes pains to lower her voice. “I mean, we’ve come all this way…”

“All right, if you insist.” Guinan leads Ro to the edge of the pavilion. “I think you’re gonna like my mother. You two could learn a lot from each other.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah. There aren’t any beds around so you’ll have to save your jumping lessons for later, but she can teach you a thing or two about dancing in the rain.”

Ro leans to the side, resting her head against Guinan’s. “If she’s anything like you, I’ll leave here an expert.”


End file.
